


Grand Slam

by LadyRhiyana



Series: Etchings [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tennis, F/M, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22526371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: In which Jaime and Brienne play tennis, fool around, and fall in love.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: Etchings [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2140638
Comments: 65
Kudos: 355





	Grand Slam

**Author's Note:**

> The Australian Open is the only two weeks of the year I watch tennis - the other grand slams being on the other side of the world, and therefore televised either past my bedtime or while I'm at work. This year I was inspired to write this ridiculous piece of smutty fluff. Please enjoy!
> 
> I should mention the influence of: a) Wimbledon the movie, where NCW played a minor part; and b) the fabulous Sherlock tennis!AU fic "A Study in Winning" by Jupiter_Ash, which is my all-time favourite sports!AU.
> 
> Also - I have never played a game of tennis in my life. I know only what the commentators tell me.

**Day 1, Round 1**

Brienne Tarth – _a promising young up-and-comer from the Stormlands_ – was on the practice court, working on her serve when she heard the lazy voice.

“Good gods. Are you a woman?”

She knew that voice. Anyone with even a cursory interest in the game knew that voice, that handsome face, those golden curls barely restrained by the familiar red bandana headband.

Jaime Lannister had burst onto the circuit at 15, a precocious youth with all the talent in the world – and the wild temper and lack of discipline to match it. He’d won his first major at seventeen, though there’d been some sort of scandal attached; since then he’d won everything that mattered and then some.

His fabulous good looks and ferocious talent had won him legions of adoring fans, though the whispers of that long-ago scandal still followed him, even now.

“Are you a man?” she retorted.

He grinned. “You must be near as tall as I am,” he said.

She straightened to her full height – at least a few inches taller.

His eyes widened.

“Care to practice?” he asked.

“No,” she said dismissively.

“If you win,” he said, “I’ll tell you everything you’re doing wrong.”

**

It was more like bloodsport than a friendly practice bout. They traded crosscourt forehands, each vying to be faster and deeper, before they switched to aggressive backhands – Lannister, of an older generation, had a classic one-handed backhand and looked ridiculously elegant, but she had the power generated by two hands and more than six feet of muscle and determination. 

They ran each other ragged, each determined not to give an inch; his lips drew back from his teeth and he grinned fiercely, and she began to grunt, deep unladylike exclamations as she pushed herself harder and harder to match him.

She had a greater reach and brute strength. He had cunning and experience and a greater range of skills. When he started to push her around the court, volleying and throwing in tricky drop shots, she squared her shoulders and stood her ground, refusing to be drawn.

Finally he missed a shot, and they both bent over, gasping for breath.

Lannister started to laugh. “Again?”

She eyed him narrowly. “If I win,” she said, “you’ll sit in my player’s box tonight and applaud every shot, without one smart comment.”

**

They played. She won.

They were so hyped up on adrenaline that when he finally hit the ball into the net, she gripped him by those ridiculous curls and dragged him into a panting, biting kiss. He drew back, laughing, his eyes daring her –

They raced into the nearest change room and slammed the door closed, Lannister shoving her against the wall and kissing her voraciously. His eyes were green, so green, and alight with laughter; she knocked her head on the wall as he slid down to his knees, dragged down her panties and put his mouth on her.

Things got a bit hazy after that.

**

That night, he sat in her player’s box beside her bewildered coach, Goodwin Hart, and he applauded every shot.

She was riding on a furious wave of energy and exultation. When she demolished the relatively inexperienced Jeyne Poole 6-1 6-0, he smirked at her and mouthed, “Again?”

**

**Day 2, Round 1**

They met again on the practice court.

“You have no finesse,” he said lazily. “You’re too used to stand-and-deliver.”

“We can’t all be cunning and elegant,” she retorted. “The game has moved on since your glory days.”

His brows twitched. “If I manage to teach you something, you’ll sit in my player’s box tonight and applaud every shot, without one smart comment.”

As she had done yesterday, she stood her ground, trading powerful groundstrokes, but when he tossed off a flippant comment about beauty and grace she threw in a tiny drop shot that made him sprint for the net.

“Well?” she snapped.

He grinned.

“Again,” he said. “But this time, mind your feet.” 

**

She dragged him into a massage room near the steam baths and shoved him down on the table. “What’s this?” he drawled. “I’m all for a nice rub-down after a hard-fought victory –”

She straddled his lap, rose up above him and tugged him into a long, hungry kiss. When she sank her weight down onto his hips, she could feel him hard and ready beneath her.

“Tell me you’ve got a condom,” she breathed into his mouth.

He laughed. “Oh sure, I carry one wherever I go,” he said, “just waiting for blue-eyed Amazons to ambush me –”

He choked as she gripped his cock in her strong hand. “We’ll just have to improvise, then,” she said.

**

That night, she sat in his player’s box beside his amused brother and his coach, Arthur Dayne, and applauded every shot as he demolished the unknown Hugh Vale 6-1, 6-2, 6-0.

He threw her a wink when he won, damn him.

**

**Day 3, Round 2**

Someone was pounding on her hotel room door.

She checked the time – barely 8am – and groaned, pulling the pillows over her head. “Go away, ” she shouted, “I’m not playing til 10.30!”

The pounding continued. “I know you’re in there,” Lannister called. “We have to practice before your game.”

She sprang up and wrenched the door open. “Look, we’ve both had our fun – you’ve had your little joke, and I’ve had mine. But it’s time to get serious now. Go away.”

“Just listen,” he said. “There’s something about practicing with you that really inspires me. We’re playing better than we have in months. It’d be a shame to give up something that works so well for both of us.”

She stared at him. “You think because it worked for us once that we should keep going? You’re not one of those players who has to bounce the ball six times before your serve, are you?”

He made a face at her. “Brienne,” he said with a sweet smile, “you’re much better than a mere superstition.”

**

They practiced together.

They fucked.

He sat in her player’s box, and she crushed Asha Greyjoy 6-2 6-2.

**

**Day 4, Round 2**

They practiced together.

They fucked.

She sat in his player’s box, and he crushed Meryn Trant 6-3 6-2 6-2.

**

**Day 5, Round 3**

By now, the media had caught on that there was something between them.

Her father called her from Tarth, clearing his throat awkwardly, and asked whether she was sure she knew what she was doing.

She only smiled. “Of course, Dad,” she said. “Don’t worry. It’s all under control.”

There were cameras outside the practice court, and onlookers eager to catch any hint of gossip. They practiced just as fiercely as ever, Brienne trying out more shots and Jaime encouraging her with laughing insults.

They had to keep their hands to themselves all the way back into the players’ facilities, but their eyes kept locking –

They slipped hand-in-hand into a deserted corridor with no windows, giggling like naughty children, and he leaned up and kissed her, smiling. She traced the curve of his lip with her tongue as he wrestled her out of her tight shirt and her sports bra.

His hands were big, and warm, and he had racquet callouses on his palms. When he cupped her breasts, she let out a long sigh. 

“Watch this,” he said, grinning, and then he _lifted her up_ , pressed her against the wall, and dragged her right leg up around his waist.

She laughed delightedly. “Careful, you’ll put your back out–” and then she had to stop, as he slipped one finger inside her.

“What was that?” he asked, as he stroked and petted her and pressed on her clit. “I didn’t hear you.”

She bit his lip in retaliation.

He grinned recklessly and added a second finger, and she jumped and writhed, giggling. “Are you sure you don’t want to let me down? It must be a strain for you.”

He hooked his fingers and stroked them against something deep inside her, and she arched, moaning involuntarily. Her fingers clutched at his shoulders, and she wrapped her other leg around his waist, drawing him tightly against her.

“Do that again,” she ordered him, tangling her hand in his golden curls.

His eyes were wild green, his pupils blown wide; he kissed her and then he did it again, and again, until she threw her head back and came with a loud groan. She felt him fumbling at his pants, heard the crinkling of a condom packet as he sheathed himself, and then he was inside her, filling her –

When he came with a strangled croak, his knees gave out and they both slid to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

**

She beat Shireen Baratheon 6-4 6-3.

Afterwards, the interviewer gestured to Jaime in her player’s box and asked if her new confidence and form had anything to do with her new hitting partner.

Brienne laughed it off and turned the interview in another direction.

**

**Day 6, Round 3**

She watched him crush Hyle Hunt 6-0 6-0 6-1.

[Well, so she might have told him about her history with Hunt and dared him to show off for her.]

**

**Day 7, Round 4**

“Margaery Tyrell is cunning,” Jaime told her. They were sitting cross-legged on the bed in his hotel room, wearing white terry-cloth robes and eating room service for lunch. “She knows she doesn’t have your reach or your power; she’s going to try to draw you in with dropshots and trick shots. Don’t let her force you to play her game.”

She nodded. When she reached out for another slice of grapefruit, her fingers brushed against his.

She blushed slightly. He had such beautiful hands: strong, well-shaped and tanned, with wide palms and long fingers and elegant wrists. She tangled their fingers together and brought his hand to her lips, mouthing the tip of his index finger, brushing a kiss over his knuckles, licking and biting her way down to his wrist. 

He drew in his breath.

“Jaime?” she asked, a dark curl of sheer lust coiling within her.

Their eyes met. She pulled his hand to the neckline of her robe, brushed aside the lapel and pressed his palm to her breast. Rising over him, she slipped off the robe altogether and straddled him, framing his face with her own broad hands, and kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him.

**

That night, rather than the usual tide of exultation, she felt as though she was brimming with deep, secret contentment.

She could almost feel Jaime’s eyes on her, smiling and warm.

Margaery tried to force her to play the game her way, but Brienne stood her ground and refused.

**

**Day 8, Round 4**

Addam Marbrand was one of Jaime’s oldest friends. They’d played together since they were boys in the Westerlands, and their style of play was very similar.

He took Jaime to four sets for the first time in the tournament.

**

**Day 9 – Quarter-finals**

Obara Sand was tall and muscular and viper-quick. She returned Brienne’s serve at blistering speed and forced her to fight hard for every point. Just like Brienne, she planted her feet and hammered at the ball; it turned into a slogging match that left Brienne panting and exhausted.

For the first time, Brienne was grateful for Jaime’s lessons in finesse.

She won. Eventually.

**

That night they broke tradition – _we’re not breaking tradition, Brienne, we’re adding on to it, a little more luck never hurt anyone_ – when Jaime showed up at her hotel room, his eyes gleaming.

“Gods, you were hot out there tonight,” he muttered into her neck as he pushed her up against the door. “Your legs in that fucking _tiny_ skirt –”

**

**Day 10 – Quarter-finals**

Loras Tyrell was young, fast and strong, and every bit as good as he thought he was. He pushed Jaime to the limit with his fast, deep groundstrokes and his relentless attacking play; pushed him around the court and made him play at full stretch, his shirt soaked with sweat, his golden curls dark and damp.

At the end of the first set, which he won after a close-fought tie-break, Jaime had to change his shirt on court.

The crowd whistled and cheered as he revealed his sleek golden torso sheened with sweat, a light trail of darker brown hair leading down to his shorts.

Brienne almost swallowed her tongue.

Jaime won. Eventually.

**

Brienne continued the extension to their tradition by showing up at his hotel room and almost throwing him down to the bed.

“You had to strip off right out in the open, didn’t you?” she gasped, as she almost tore his shirt off. “You in those, those tight white shorts, and that red bandana with your ridiculous curls, I couldn’t take my eyes off you –”

She put her greedy hands on him and took, and took, and took.

**

**Day 11 – Semi-finals**

The media attention was relentless. By now, the whole world seemed to have figured out that she and Jaime were having a red-hot affair. They’d hardly been discreet; if not the heated looks and the intense nature of their practice sessions, they’d been at each other’s every game and their closeness and intimacy was unmistakable.

They gave up trying to hide it.

He blew her a kiss before her semi-final against Daenerys Targaryen.

The crowd cheered rapturously.

The white-haired glamour queen was swift, powerful, and ruthless, with all of the finesse that Obara Sand had lacked. Brienne had to dig deeper than she’d ever dug before, constantly battling for every point, the lead going back and forth between them.

At times, she came almost close to despairing as Daenerys pushed and pushed, but every time she felt her heart sink she looked up to see Jaime in her player’s box, cheering her on, and she found new reserves of strength.

 _You can beat her,_ he’d said that morning, his hand on her cheek and his eyes staring solemnly into hers. _I know you can. Now you have to believe it, too._

When it came down to a tie-breaker in the third set, she put everything on the line, holding nothing back, and she fell to her knees, exhausted when she won.

Jaime was smiling at her.

 _Again?_ he mouthed.

The camera captured her shining smile, tears in her blue, blue eyes.

**

**Day 12 – Semi-finals**

Sandor Clegane was nothing but brute strength and unrelenting attack.

Jaime went down 6-2 in the first set, shocked by his opponent’s powerful serve and barrage of groundstrokes. When he lost the second set 7-6 he smashed his racquet and raged at the umpire, the crowd cheering ironically at his trademark outburst. The cameras put his face up on the big screen, his green eyes blazing and his golden curls barely restrained by the red bandana.

Fired up by his tantrum, he came back from two sets down to win in a fifth-set tiebreaker. When he smashed the last forehand down the line to win match point, the crowd roared and he roared with them – Jaime Lannister, still the magnificent golden lion even now.

**

He fucked her afterwards in the locker room, triumphant and sweat-slick and flying high on the roar of the crowd.

**

**Day 13 – the Women’s Final**

It was Brienne’s first time in the final of a grand slam.

Not all of her father’s and her coach’s reassurances could calm her nerves; even Jaime’s advice went in one ear and out the other.

They went down to the practice court, but even after their usual workout she was still jittery. Jaime gave her a quizzical look. “Do you want me to fuck it out of you?” he asked.

“Ha!” she grinned. “As if you could.”

“Well, do you want to fight then? Tell me what you need.”

She sighed. “I don’t know.”

He crossed over to her and put his arms around her, held her tight as if he could keep her from vibrating out of her skin. “You’ve got all the skills you need,” he said. “You just need to believe in yourself. In the end, it all comes down to what’s in here –” he tapped her forehead “– and here,” he tapped her breast, over her heart.

She smiled tremulously. Her racing heartbeat slowed. “Thank you, Jaime,” she said, leaning her head on his shoulder.

** 

It was a sell-out crowd, broadcast all over Westeros and Essos and beyond.

Sansa Stark was tall, beautiful, powerful and quick. She had all the grace and elegance that Brienne lacked, and if she was not quite as strong as Brienne, she was certainly powerful enough.

Brienne had never fought such a tough opponent before. Sansa simply would not quit, fighting hard for every single point, her blue eyes blazing with iron-hard determination. She made Brienne run, sent her crashing to the ground more than once, and each time it was harder to pick herself up.

The crowd roared encouragement. Jaime clenched his upraised fist and made a _come on!_ gesture.

 _One more shot_ , she told herself during the long, exhausting rallies. _One more point, one more game – just keep the ball in play, and never give in._

Time lost all meaning. The roar of the crowd became nothing more than background noise. All she could hear was her heartbeat and her laboured breathing, all she could see was the ball and her opponent, and all she could feel was the strain and burn of her muscles.

When she looked up at the scoreboard and saw it was nearly match point, she knew that it was now or never. With one last raging cry, she rallied, fighting with everything in her until the roar of the crowd told her that something extraordinary had happened –

She looked up to Jaime, disbelieving.

He was standing on his feet, as the crowd were all on their feet, and his face was shining with exultant victory. _You won!_ He mouthed at her, and she collapsed slowly to her knees and burst into tears.

**

**Day 14 – the Men’s Final**

The crowd cheered and whistled, holding up flags and banners – golden lions and grey direwolves – and homemade signs – _I LOVE YOU JAIME!_ and _LONG LIVE KING ROBB!_

Robb Stark was young and handsome with thick auburn curls and bright blue eyes. Effortlessly charming and media-friendly, his reputation was spotless, with none of the scandal attached to Jaime’s name or his reputation for blazing tantrums.

The last time they’d met in the final of a grand slam, at the Whispering Wood, Jaime had lost in four sets.

This time, though, Jaime was more centred – this time he had a pair of blue eyes watching over him and a woman who believed in him.

**

The game was hard fought, one of the most exciting grand slam finals in years. Jaime fought with all his gallant brilliance, and Robb with strategic flair. They traded forehands and backhands, slicing and cutting and volleying, they covered the whole court at full strength in an electrifying display of skill and athleticism.

Brienne watched, her heart in her throat, as the man she loved fought for every single point as though it was a matter of life and death.

In the end, after five hours and five long, exhausting sets, Jaime finally prevailed.

The crowd roared and cheered as he fell to the ground, exhausted – exultant.

**

When he finally got back to his feet, he raced over to the crowd and vaulted up into the player’s box, hugged his brother and his coach, and grabbed Brienne and kissed her in full view of the cameras, their kiss broadcast all over Westeros and Essos and beyond.

**

**Epilogue: One week later. Real life.**

Jaime lived in Lannisport, in a multi-million dragon house right on the waterfront.

Brienne lived on Tarth, at her father’s comfortable house in Evenfall Bay.

“Never mind,” Jaime said lazily, nuzzling at her neck. “I can move to Tarth.”

“Well, what if I want to move to Lannisport and live in your mansion?” she needled him. “I don’t want to live with my father forever.”

“I don’t want to live with _my_ father looming over me at Casterly Rock,” he retorted.

“Fine,” she huffed. “We’ll both move to King’s Landing.”

She smiled as his hands wandered down to her legs. “You’re so forceful when you boss me around,” he said, kissing his way down to her breasts. “Did I tell you how much I love your legs?”

She tugged at his curls, dragged his head up.

“Just promise me we’ll practice together every day,” she said.

He grinned, all sharp white teeth and bright green eyes. “It’d be a shame to give up something that works so well.”

“Jaime,” she said, kissing him sweetly. “Trust me. What we have is much stronger than a superstition.”

**

They moved to King’s Landing.

They practiced together every day.

And what they had proved strong enough to last forever. 


End file.
